Free Will is a ***** and a half.
But ***** ain't free, he costs and costs, and jaws you, gnaws you, spits out your bones, retargets, redodges, zooms in, looms thin, steals a hat from a child outside a movie theater and vanishes around the corner, through the alley, under the chainlink where the filthy mutt from the movie dug his way to freedom Steve McQueen style.
But the dog's name is not *****, and she would prefer you call her a ***** then whistle. It doesn't make any difference to her what you call her, but she knows whistling your sexuality at strangers in the street is bad for your mental health, worse for your dignity.
She will stare you down, swipe left, steal your money from the begger, and brag She left you dead in the street next to the twin corpse of the ice cream man that won't stop ringing his bell.
If you are too lazy to make coffee in the morning the nightmares will follow you all day, headache throbbing like a hammer on memories like nails.
On the morning of the day little baby Jesus decided to ease up on the whipping you were at the Portuguese diner out by the highway on the toilet listening to the rain drops gather rhythm on the rooftop, thinking about the idea of mathematical randomness, wondering if perfect beats like Ringo Star or clocks exist in "nature." I mean not man made. You know what I mean.
Inventing Bukowski is also fun. He loved to write about his *****: "The best of the beer *****/ hot, wet, steaming, and glorious ..." What a role model.
The thing with J. C. is he is just one of three people, none of whom yet exist.
Humanity is still basically crawling around in the forest waiting for the Aliens take the time to drop by and share a few tips. Maybe more than a few.
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